Before the Gunfight
by mwalker
Summary: This was written as a writing exercise. The topic was "a cowboy composes a letter at his favorite saloon before going out to face another gunfighter." I decided that the cowboy could live in the Firefly future as easily as the past.


_This was written for a writing exercise. The topic was "a cowboy composes a letter at his favorite saloon before going out to face another gunfighter." I decided that the cowboy could live in the Firefly future as easily as the past._

* * *

He looked up from his table at the clock on the wall. The barkeeper claimed the clock came all the way from Osiris, but he'd gotten a closer look once, and it was clearly marked "Made on Grillion's World." Not that being made in that polluted stinkhole made it less of a clock; and anyway, it claimed the time was 11am.

He looked back down at the letter he was writing. "Dear Mother." He'd been working on it for nearly an hour, and that was all it said.

"I've never been very good with words, though," he said to himself, and looked around the bar. It was still morning, but there was a fair crowd already. Word of the fight had spread quickly; this stinking town was in the crapheel end of the 'Verse, and they didn't seem to get much excitement.

"Dear Mother," he said, and began writing. "I am writing to you from a moon called Marion. I have not yet found work, but when I do, I will send you some credits like I done said."

There! His mom would like that.

"I still have enough clothes, as I have made some credits from doing odd jobs. It is warm on this planet, so I have not got the cough or anything like that there."

"Now, I don't want to worry you..." his writing trailed off.

"Idiot! She will worry if she reads that," he said. He crossed it out.

"I am doing fine." There, that was better. "I just got me thinking that I missed you, mama, and so I am writing this letter to you." Yep, she always liked hearing that he missed her. Which he did; so, okay, then.

He looked around the bar once again. The clock had advanced considerably since the last time he'd looked, and there were more people around. He looked out the window, and saw even more people on the street outside. He was becoming a little afraid that the show they were going to see would end up with him lying face up in the middle of the ruttin' street! The other man was fast; he seen that in the saloon, back when he'd first arrived in town.

"I had to get drunk," he said to himself. After the insult, a challenge quickly followed, and he'd been just drunk enough to accept instead of clearin' out of town like a smart fella. He looked at the clock again. Whatever was gonna happen, would happen in about a half hour.

"Ma, I don't want to you to worry nothing about me as I travel around the 'Verse. I am fine, and I aim to be fine for a long time."

He hoped so. He was pretty fast with a gun, and he was just about the biggest guy around. Still, what else could he do? No one wanted to hire him; there were too many other people with no jobs here, with the war over and all. He hadn't fought in the war. That had sounded like a quicker way to die than this ruttin' gunfight.

Still and all, what was there to live for? It's not like anything was coming his way. He stared at the paper, completely at a loss for words.

"Hey, you!" said a voice.

He looked up. "What'dya want?" he snarled.

One of the two ugliest men he'd ever seen spoke up. "You any good with that gun of yours?"

The other ugliest man he'd ever seen, standing next to the first one, said, "Yeah, everyone's bettin' against ya, so we figure to bet on ya."

Well, this was confusing as hell. "Why do you wanna bet on me?"

The first man spoke. "We think you might be better than everyone thinks. We figure that, even if you ain't, you might get lucky if you're good enough. And we heard how you tracked that 难看 bear that was takin' the flocks hereabouts. That was some good trackin', what we hear."

Huh. "I've always been good at trackin' stuff."

The first man said, "We could use a good tracker on our crew, especially if he's good enough to not get killed. It's a small ship, you'd have to share a room, but we get some good work. With a good tracker, we could get some better work."

Now this was even more interesting. "What's the pay?"

The answer was quick. "Seven percent of the take."

He thought about it. "Just seven?" It seemed a little on the low side.

"Seven's standard!" said the second man, a little defensively.

He looked the two men up and down, thinking about it. It didn't seem all that promising, but hey, a job's a job. "Okay, I'll take it."

"Good luck! Don't disappoint us," his new boss said, and they walked outside to place some more bets.

He looked back down at the table, and picked up the pen again.

"Good news, Ma! I've just been offered a new job." He thought about what to write. After all, there weren't no sense worrying Ma. "They want me to be a tracker, like I was always good at. The pay is good, so don't worry."

"Love, your son, Jayne"

He put the letter in an envelope and stood up. He gave the letter to the barkeeper to mail. He checked his guns, and walked outside just as the fancy clock struck noon.

He found he was actually looking forward to the gunfight, now that he had something to live for. For sure and all, he didn't want to disappoint his Ma. She'd never let him hear the end of it, if he went and got himself killed and all.


End file.
